Dazed at the pace her life was racing forward, Dara sat numbly in a small room off the cathedral, letting Sorcha brush her hair, wondering if the Norman groom was killing the Irish high king while the bride readied herself to wed.
She fingered the emerald necklace Strongheart had given her, her hand catching on the shamrock that reminded her of home. “Should I again try to run from the Norman?”
Sorcha’s warm brown eyes narrowed. “Och! Where could you go? Your father is here. The Ard-ri is here. And your child needs a father, aye?”
“What will I do if he marries me and then goes off to make war?” Dara asked.
Sorcha clucked her tongue. “You will do what women always do—wait for their men to come home, raise their bairns, and pray.”
With all the running Dara had done, she hadn’t escaped her fate. Perhaps it was best she meet it head-on. Then why didn’t she feel joyful? Why didn’t she feel at peace with her decision to yield to the Norman?
Perhaps because Strongheart respected her wishes in only small matters. Or perhaps because the Norman had never told her he loved her. Deep down she thought a wedding should be joyful, not an arrangement of land ownership, and then scolded herself for wishing for a romantic marriage. Romance was a silly child’s dream, and she must put childish dreams behind her.
Sorcha finished with her hair, leaving it combed to a radiant shine and loose over her shoulders. She helped her into a fine silk undertunic and a cream overtunic trimmed with gold embroidery. Her friend had even brought matching slippers.
She hugged Sorcha. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“Och! I almost forgot.” Sorcha hurried to her traveling pouch and pulled out an exquisite gold girdle. “This is from Strongheart.”
Dara sucked in her breath at the delicate workmanship, tiny golden flowers woven together in a daisy chain. Would he be so thoughtful if he didn’t care for her? She thought not, and where there was feeling, there was a chance to sway him from his relentless course. For the first time that day, a smile formed on her lips.
“You are still too pale.” Sorcha reached out and pinched her cheeks. “There. Go to him and be happy.”
“I will try.”
The wedding passed in a blur. The smoke outside cast a pall over the ceremony as did the Ard-ri glowering from his pew. Dara did her best to ignore everything but the man kneeling by her side. His implacable heat radiated through the black linen of his fine tunic to the tips of his polished leather boots. He’d washed his hair, and, still damp at the nape, his locks gleamed, their fresh scent wafting to her, and she recalled the enjoyment of running her fingers through his thick hair.
Shouts from outside suddenly interrupted the ceremony, and her heart pounded. Something was wrong! Gaillard went to the massive double doors at the entrance and returned down the center aisle at a run. “MacLugh and O’Rourke’s son have set our ships afire!”
They had begun the ceremony amid burning buildings and death, ended it with fresh assaults. Dara felt doomed to a life of war. A great, heavy sadness welled within her chest.
“Finish,” Strongheart ordered the archbishop.
The archbishop nodded. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Strongheart turned to Conor. “Take care of her.”
Her husband of two minutes did not even kiss her before he sprinted out the door and left her kneeling at the altar. Instead of wedding chimes and laughter, she heard the battle cries of war.
Chapter Nineteen
STRONGHEART frowned at MacLugh’s tactics. The coward had not stayed to fight. The King of Meath had set their ships on fire to force the Norman army to march to Ferns. Instead of fighting, MacLugh had retreated.
After deploying his men, Strongheart returned to the small room in the church he’d set aside for his and Dara’s use. He knocked and entered to find his bride changed out of her finery and back into boy’s clothes, her long hair braided and neatly pinned to her head.
She stood beside a table sorting through small packets of herbs. Relief that he had her where he could protect her washed through him. Putting up her hair and wearing boy’s clothing could not hide the aristocratic beauty of her high cheekbones or the proud tilt to her head. He deeply regretted the necessity of spending their wedding night on a forced march to Ferns instead of in a soft bed aboard ship.
She didn’t look up from her task and spoke softly, but he heard the bitterness in her words. “So, MacLugh is now fighting O’Rourke’s son for control of Castle Ferns.”
“’Tis good our enemies fight among themselves.”
“Is it good the war has escalated? That more crops will be ruined? More men will die? And how long before the clans of Ulster and Connaught learn you hold the Ard-ri hostage?”
“I let the Ard-ri go.”
She spun around to face him, eyes wide, her long lashes emphasizing her surprise. “Why?”
He shrugged, barely containing his smile of satisfaction at keeping his word. “I do not need another enemy.”
“And?” she prodded, her arms folded under her breasts as if unwilling to believe he’d followed her wishes.
“The Ard-ri and I have come to an understanding.”
Her eyebrow arched with skepticism. “Truly?”
“When I retake Leinster, he will legitimize our marriage.”
Since he’d accomplished what she had set out to do, he thought she would break into a wide smile and embrace him with joy. Instead, she bit her lower lip. “Did you draw this agreement in a written pact?”
How many times must he tell her the same thing? “My word is ironclad.”
“But the Ard-ri’s is not.” She lifted her chin, and despite her words, hope shone in the green mists of her eyes. “The high king is capable of selectively forgetting his agreements.”
A hardness crept into Strongheart’s voice. “He will not have the luxury of forgetting this one. Once I retake Leinster, the Ard-ri will not have a choice. He will either stick to his bargain or face my knights.”
Dara exhaled a long sigh. “More battles of glory for you to fight, my lord?”
He’d taken enough of her sarcasm. Striding two steps forward, he gathered her into his arms. He’d spent too many nights longing for the sight of her smile to deny himself the taste of her lips and the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest.
As his lips covered hers, she gasped. His arms went around her shoulders, and he tenderly drew her closer, losing himself in the sweet scent of her hair, the soft feel of her lips, the exciting taste of her mouth. She was everything he wanted in a woman, and he was through denying to himself how much he wanted her for his wife.
Putting the feelings he couldn’t speak into his kiss, he showed her what she meant to him. He gathered her closer, and his heart lurched madly. He would use his warrior strength to protect her. In the days spent apart, he’d discovered that real wealth was the freedom to be the kind of man Dara loved.
She wound her fingers around his neck and into his hair, her eagerness exciting him more than winning any battle. He would never regret his decision to conquer this woman instead of Eire. Those many years ago, his father had led him down the wrong path, an endless cycle of carnage, war, and revenge. He saw Dara’s love, not Eire, as his last chance to lead a worthy life. As he kissed his wife, he imagined his mother smiling down at him, and for the first time in many years he felt at peace.
He drew back from their kiss but kept his arms around her, enjoying her snuggling against him. “If we ever wish to live in peace, we must defeat Leinster’s enemies.”
“Yes.”
“Is that my wife I hear agreeing with me?” he teased. “Mayhap I have a fairy sprite in my arms instead.”
She stiffened, but a smile twitched across her lips. “Norman, I warn you fair, I will not share my husb
and with a fairy.”
“Ah, now that sounds more like the wench I married and have come to love.”
“Love? Did you say you loved me?”
He chuckled, and the warm sound enfolded her like a velvet wrap. “Must have been a slip of the tongue.”
She drew her fingers into a fist and punched his shoulder. He didn’t flinch but looked at her with a fiery hunger that stole her breath away.
“Tell me,” she demanded. “I need to hear you say it again.”
“I love you, Princess.”
He loved her. At Strongheart’s words, Dara felt a bottomless satisfaction and joy. Blissfully happy and fully alive, she tugged his head down and rewarded him with another searing kiss. Could she truly have everything she wanted? A husband that loved her, a baby, and peace?
Through kiss-swollen lips she whispered, “Once we retake Leinster, can we live without war?”
His tone turned serious. “We must hurt MacLugh and O’Rourke’s son so they will think twice about attacking again, but not defeat them so badly their wounded pride cries out for revenge.”
She grinned, her eyes shining with relief and the pleasure of going home. “You know us so well.”
Although she now agreed with Strongheart to retake her home with the Norman knights, a niggling doubt remained. Would her husband be satisfied with just Leinster? Or would he grow bored and seek Eire’s high kingship?
His hands wandered inside her tunic and cupped her breasts, his thumbs flicking over her nipples. She moaned softly, shards of heat shooting to her belly. Squirming, she tried to set aside her doubts, allowing his husky voice to convince her he’d meant what he’d said—Leinster would be enough for him.
He nibbled her ear. “I aim to know you better. I do not think I will be bored watching your belly fill with my child, your breasts plump with milk.”
She frowned. “I will grow fat, and you will not be able to make love with me.”
He laughed. “There are many ways to please you.” He whispered in her ear, telling her exactly how he planned to take her, until her cheeks heated, and her face burned crimson at his intriguing suggestions.
Unfortunately, he only spoke words of love and had not the time to act upon them. Events did not permit them even an hour of privacy before they mounted and rode north toward Ferns.
“I wish you would stay and let me send for you later,” Strongheart muttered.
“The safest place for me is behind your sword,” she countered.
Her da agreed, his face excited at the prospect of going home. “’Tis better to allow Dara to ride with us than to have her follow on her own.”
Sorcha chose to ride with them as well, and Dara didn’t miss the frequent looks her friend shared with Gaillard. She expected theirs might be the first wedding after they retook Castle Ferns.
The ride north was a slow one. Advance parties scouted far ahead, searching for ambush or trickery, but oddly the trip remained peaceful. Following the Okinselagh trail, they passed Wexford, through great herds of grazing cattle. Leinster’s country folk urged on the Norman cavalry armed with long lances and clad in mail armor, along with English archers, whose bows so accurately carried death at a distance. Along the way, minor lairds paid homage to her father and Strongheart, repledging oaths of fealty, agreeing to pay tribute to help support their army with food.
They covered the distance from Waterford to Ferns in a hard two-day ride, in ever-falling rain, skirting the mountains and bog land. Dara looked proudly on her father and husband, riding side by side, the two men of great size who were popular with her people.
The Norman gave her people hope. Brave and fierce in war, he was a tremendous fighter, possessing inexhaustible energy. He constantly rode to the front line and back, checking the state of the army’s readiness and gauging their fatigue. An hour’s ride from Ferns he called a halt and ordered them to set up camp for the night.
Tomorrow they would retake Ferns.
The rain softened to a drizzle, and Dara looked up from stirring stew at her fire to spy a rider coming their way from the direction of Ferns. An odd premonition chilled her.
Strongheart noted her shiver and placed a warm arm over her shoulder. “One more day and you shall be home,” he promised.
The Normans stopped the rider at their perimeter and searched him for weapons before escorting him to Strongheart. The rider’s dirty hair was matted in clumps over his ears, but it was his haughty eyes, cold and chill, that made Dara inch closer to her husband.
“I have a message for ye from King MacLugh.”
Strongheart stepped between Dara and the other man. “Does MacLugh wish to surrender?”
“On the contrary. He wishes to fight you at dawn. Winner take all.”
Strongheart didn’t hesitate. “I accept.”
“No!” Dara tugged on his arm, attempting to pull him away. Though chilled, her body broke into an icy sweat. “’Tis a trick.”
Strongheart led her into their tent. “Do not ever gainsay me again, woman. I know what I am about. Do you think I fear MacLugh? Do you think I cannot defeat him?”
The blood drained from her face, and she forced words past a mouth gone dry with fear. “We have the upper hand. There is no need for you to risk your life. With your army of knights, we cannot lose.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, adamant in his decision. “I am not a coward.”
His words were flat and abrupt. Resolute.
She twisted her hands in her tunic and spoke with care not to insult his honor. “I saw you fight with swords once before. Remember? You and MacLugh appeared evenly matched.”
He shot her a cocky grin, his midnight eyes sparkling with excitement. “That is exactly what I wished him to think. This challenge will save lives—and that is what you wanted. We can retake Leinster with the loss of only one life—the King of Meath’s.”
Damn him! While she felt sick with worry, he would enjoy the battle. How could he risk his life so carelessly? She dropped to her knees and grabbed his hand, pleading with him past the lump in her throat. “I beg of you, do not do this. I would rather lose half an army than you.”
He kneeled with her. “I will not lose, Princess.”
“You are doing what he wants.” A sob escaped her. “This fight between you is the only way MacLugh can win.”
Strongheart framed her face with his hands, his voice firm. “I have already accepted the challenge. I will not go back on my word—not even for you.”
Tears washed down her face, and she let him see her pain. “Do I mean nothing to you? Do you not wish to see your child born? Do you not wish to grow old in my bed?”
He tried to silence her with a kiss, but she would have none of his caresses. Turning away, she rolled onto her side on the blanket, knees drawn to her chest in dread. Something awful would happen tomorrow.
He held her through the night, and she awakened exhausted. The rain slicing from the cloudy sky in the grayish dawn mirrored her fears. Trying not to distract him from his preparations, she remained silent by their small fire.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “I will be back soon, Princess.”
“I am coming with you.” His mouth opened to object, but she spoke quickly before he could get a word in. “I will remain quiet. I will not distract you. Please, do not make me wait here.” Her voice broke. “Waiting is worse than fighting. Watching you risk your life is hard enough but not knowing is even worse. I could not endure remaining here and wondering what was happening.”
“You shall come with me.”
When they arrived in the appointed field, Gaillard had the Norman knights placed around half of the perimeter of the circle cleared for the challenge. MacLugh’s men lined the other side, clapping one another on the back, drinking ale, and be
tting, giving the scene an oddly festive atmosphere.
Between Norman knight and MacLugh warrior stood the Ard-ri with his men-at-arms, his harpist playing a rowdy ballad. At least the high king could be forced to legitimize their marriage if Strongheart won—when he won, Dara thought, in an attempt to push her doubts aside.
It was not so much that she doubted her husband’s ability that made her tremble but that she distrusted MacLugh. The man was without honor. The way he looked at her made her skin crawl as if it were infested with bedbugs. She did not deign to look his way, but she could feel his sordid gaze upon her as she took a place beside Gaillard.
She fastened her gaze upon her husband as he unhurriedly removed his mantle and drew his sword. He moved with the dangerous grace of a mountain lion, his lithe movements economical and unhurried. His swarthy, handsome face looked particularly arresting, his eyes alert, his lips determined and clearly eager to face his opponent.
Their fight would be on foot. Both men wore helms, clasped shields in their left hands, and held swords with the right.
MacLugh might not be as tall or as broad as the Norman, but he had the lean, wiry strength of a predator. The look in his eyes was hungry, cruel, and the hair on her arms prickled in response.
The combatants, looking into each other’s eyes for weakness, circled each other warily, testing. Strongheart smiled then, a slow, cynical smile that left an obviously maddening impression on his opponent’s self-control. MacLugh thrust wildly but skillfully, and Strongheart parried without losing his mocking grin.
Was MacLugh’s loss of temper a good sign? Dara closed her fingers into fists and reminded herself to breathe. The trampled grass soon became muddy. Several minutes passed without either man drawing blood.
Onlookers on both sides of the circle shouted encouragement. Dara realized her home was at stake, but all she could think about was the Norman. Any man could slip or make a mistake. She wanted this to be over, and yet as long as they both took the other’s measure, Strongheart could not be hurt.
MacLugh suddenly lunged forward, his blade bouncing off Strongheart’s shield and slipping around to nip his arm. As blood welled, Dara bit her lip to keep from crying out.
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